Jewel Box
by chappysmom
Summary: No, this room didn't look remotely hostile. In fact, it looked lovely. Nice, spacious, gleaming with sunshine. His curiosity was outweighing the headache now. What was going on? He turned around, taking it in then turned back to the main room and took a closer look and felt a chill run along his spine. There was no door. At all. (Post-Reich, 4 chapters)
1. Chapter 1

Note: I own nothing here but my own ideas—everything else belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. Not beta'd or Brit-picked, so all errors are my own.

* * *

John woke gently as the morning light caressed his eyelids, painting the world golden. He lay there, warm and content, as his brain slowly woke up and started to complain. His head was killing him, almost like a hangover, but he didn't remember getting drunk last night.

He clenched his eyes tighter closed against the light. What had he done last night?

Well, nothing, really, which was exactly the problem. His entire life had been too filled with 'nothing' since Sherlock walked off the side of a building. He was so busy doing nothing, he didn't even have the energy to become an alcoholic like Harry. It was just too much work. It was easier to go through the motions and … seriously. Why was the room so bright?

He rolled to the side of the bed and swung his legs to the floor. He needed paracetamol, and he needed it now.

It was when his bare feet touched the plush carpeting that he realized he had a problem—because the rug in his bedroom was thin and threadbare. For that matter, his room got sun in the afternoon, not in the morning.

He pried his eyelids open, squinting against the golden light and realized he had no clue where he was. Had he gone home with someone? (Though he couldn't think who, since he couldn't remember leaving the flat yesterday … at all?)

He leaned his elbows on his knees, fighting the pounding in his head for a moment, trying to get his bearings, and then scanned the room again. It looked like a plush hotel suite—impersonal but luxurious.

He truly could not imagine where he was.

He noticed a bottle of painkillers on the bedside table, thoughtfully placed next to a glass of water and blinked at it. He didn't know where he was or how he got here … did he really want to risk taking unknown drugs? His brain throbbed at him, though, and he decided that was all the answer he needed. He'd risk it.

All he wanted to do was lie back down on this remarkably comfortable bed and figure out what was going on, but he'd spent too much time as a soldier, too much time trailing after Sherlock, to be able to relax in an unknown—and therefore possibly hostile—environment. He compromised by sitting back on the bed and looking around while waiting for the pounding to stop.

No, this room didn't look remotely hostile. In fact, it looked lovely. His impression of a luxury hotel room was spot on. Large furniture (too big to lift for a weapon, too heavy to block the door, too sturdy to break into pieces) filled the room—he could see an armoire and chairs in the bedroom, and a sofa and desk in the room beyond …

A room beyond.

Groaning, he heaved himself to his feet and realized he was wearing an unfamiliar pair of pajamas. That was just … creepy, he thought as he noticed a coordinating robe at the foot of the bed. Ignoring that (and the comfortable-looking slippers laid next to the bed), he eased his way toward the door.

A nice, spacious living room, gleaming with sunshine.

Also totally empty.

His curiosity was outweighing the headache now. What was going on? He turned around, taking in the kitchenette in the corner, the desk, the armoire in front of the sitting area. All beautiful. All completely bewildering.

There was a glass slider to the left which opened to his touch to show a large stone terrace surrounded by high walls—too high for basic privacy, he thought. More the kind for keeping prisoners…

He turned back to the main room and took a closer look and felt a chill run along his spine.

There was no door. At all.

He was trapped.

And he had no idea where he was, how he had gotten here, or if anyone would even notice he was missing.

John stood in the middle of the beautiful, perfect living room and wondered what he was going to do next.

###

What he did next was take a shower. The bathroom was of comparable quality with the rest of the suite … his prison … and stocked with all the amenities he could need. He wasn't sure if he should be pleased that he was given a proper razor or not. Most captors made a point of making sure their detainees were not given any means with which they could hurt themselves or others—so what did the razor say about their expectations of John? That he wouldn't be violent? That he wouldn't become suicidal? Not that you can do much harm with a safety razor, he thought, though the mirror was glass and could be broken easily if he felt the need.

Toweling off after his shower, he went back into the bedroom and opened the closet to find it full of comfortable clothes, all his size. Jeans. Flannel shirts. On exploration, the dresser provided underwear, socks, and jumpers.

It was chilling, he thought, how much effort had gone into this gilded cage. And how long the architects apparently intended him to stay.

After he was dressed, he went back to the main room. His headache was better and he was feeling desperate for a cup of tea … and not a little nervous about checking the level of provisions in the kitchenette. If it were stocked for the nuclear holocaust, he might just sit down and cry.

When he looked, though, the cupboards had only a reasonable amount of bachelor-proof staples. Tea. Coffee. Biscuits. Crisps. Things to snack on, but nothing for a proper meal. He was just wondering about that when a bell sounded and a light he hadn't noticed lit over what he had thought was a cupboard but which turned out to be a dumb-waiter system. Just then it held a tray filled with a steaming hot breakfast … he turned to scan the room again, cursing himself for not having noticed the security cameras before. (Of course there were cameras.)

He removed the tray, balancing it carefully on the counter before examining the cupboard, then pressed the button set into the wall next to it, watching as the shelf rotated a full 180 degrees. He could be provided meals without ever seeing the cook—and without being given any way to turn that daily delivery to his advantage. It wasn't big enough to climb into himself, and he couldn't see anything other than the empty slot in front of him. Ingenious, really.

Sighing, he closed the door and turned to the tray. A steaming pot of tea, a jug of milk, eggs, bacon, toast … he had to admit it smelled wonderful. He carried it to the table and sat down, hesitating only momentarily (was it drugged?) before diving in. He was too hungry to care—just as his headache earlier had been too bad to question the pain-killers.

He didn't know what to think about that—that his captor knew him well enough to predict his reactions.

When he was finished, he carried a cup of tea around the room as he explored. The armoire in the sitting area had a television, a DVD player and a wide selection of movies. On checking, he was able to get most channels, though no news networks, which he was sure was no coincidence. The bookcase was filled with books—all of which were to his taste. There was even a Kindle e-reader—though when he checked, it had some extra layers of security. He could buy any book he wanted, but the web features were all disabled. No checking his email from here, he thought.

The desk had an assortment of stationery, which he thought was hilarious. Who was he supposed to write to? His kidnapper? (Though, maybe he'd want to put in a request for a good curry for dinner some night.)

So … books, movies, telly. But nothing resembling news. No periodicals. No way to communicate outside the room (other than a hypothetical note left on the tray with his breakfast dishes). Nothing to actually _do_. He could go out on the terrace for fresh air—it was even big enough for some exercise—but otherwise … for now, he was stuck.

The question, though, was why? And who?

These were luxury accommodations, to be sure. Custom built for keeping a person in one, comfortable place. Had it been built specifically for him? Or had there been other tenants before? (And if so, what had happened to them?) With the exception of being able to make himself a cup of tea, he was totally reliant on whoever was outside to provide him with food.

He wondered what would happen when the laundry needed to be done. They could easily enough send him clean sheets or whatever via that dumb-waiter system, but what was he supposed to do with the dirty ones? Unless there were a washer and dryer he hadn't noticed and he was expected to do his own?

He was feeling bored and trapped already. What was he doing here?

Whoever had planned his knew him well enough to provide his preferred clothing (in his size, which he was trying not to think about). The books and DVDs were all genres that he liked best, and he was willing to wager that the food provided would all be to his taste. It was a creepy level of personal knowledge that immediately made him think of Mycroft.

But why would Mycroft trap him here? Now that Sherlock was gone, the man had no reason to be involved in John's life at all (since 'sentiment' was so obviously not his thing). But even if he had felt obliged to keep an eye on John out of a sense of duty to his brother, still … why? John might not have been doing much (anything) lately, but that included any type of self-harm. He was eating, he wasn't drinking himself into oblivion every night. He hadn't started cutting or hurting himself.

In other words, he had not given Mycroft any reason to think that John was going to do something stupid … and therefore not given him a reason to high-handedly take John into his special kind of protective custody.

Though John supposed the protection could be because of some outside threat, but then why the secrecy? If one of Sherlock's old enemies was coming after him, he wasn't stubborn enough (he didn't think) to turn an offer of protection down. So again, if this were Mycroft (and there wasn't anyone else John could think of with the money or power to build a prison cell like this), why all the secrecy?

So … an enemy?

He could think of any number of reasons any of Sherlock's old enemies might have wanted to kidnap him in the past, but none of them would have provided such nice living arrangements. They would have been more likely to indulge in the chained-to-a-cement-wall kind of décor.

Well, maybe Moriarty. He was twisted enough to try to trick John with plush surroundings … but he was dead. So was Irene Adler.

It just didn't make sense. He simply did not have enemies (or friends) with this kind of reach.

John looked around the room again. Really, how was it possible that there was no door? Had he been air-lifted to the terrace and brought in that way? Had they sealed the door after he'd been carried in? (Though, if so, how had the workman gotten out?) Was there a hatch in the ceiling? A trap door in the floor? Breaking apart the furniture and trying to batter his way through the wall was starting to sound like the only viable option.

Except for the cameras. He wasn't surprised they were there, but they did put a damper on any covert activities he'd want to stay … covert. Assuming he could think of any.

But really, why was he here?

###

That first day, he didn't do much—just waited on events.

Not that anything eventful happened. The bell by the dumb-waiter had rung twice more with meals, though whoever was on the other side refused to send a new tray until he returned the earlier one with dirty dishes. Feeling rather like a lab rat pressing a lever for food, John had done so.

Not entirely to his surprise, the food was prepared exactly to his liking. It was still creepy.

He prowled his room … suite … cell, fidgeting for something to do. For the first time in weeks, he _wanted_ to do something. (Leave.) The idea of sitting on the invitingly comfortable couch and watching mindless telly repelled him.

These last months of grief for Sherlock had surprised him with their intensity. He wasn't the first friend John had lost, after all, nor the first loved one. Because he admitted that he loved Sherlock like a brother. More than he loved Harry, even. Sherlock might have been one of the most frustrating individuals John knew, but at least he had shown he cared about John as well. Not often, maybe, but he had—which was more than he usually got from his sister.

God. His sister. Harry would be frantic when she found out he was missing. They might not be close, they might drive each other mad, but she had been in full, protective, older-sister mode for months now and having John just disappear? He didn't envy any of the people in her path. Nobody knew better than he what a force of nature she could be when feeling protective. He only wished he could see it.

Mrs. Hudson, too, would worry. Greg Lestrade. His co-workers.

Damn it! Why was this happening to him? It wasn't like he was important anymore—not that he ever was. His only importance had been to Sherlock and that had only been because the man couldn't handle regular friendships. Of course everyone assumed the worst about their relationship—it was the closest thing Sherlock had to one.

But on his own? Just ordinary John Watson? He was a broken-down, ex-army doctor with a recurring psychosomatic limp. He worked as a GP in a local surgery and these days the most exciting moment of his day was choosing where he wanted to order his take-out from. He wasn't important, he wasn't valuable, he wasn't … anything. He certainly didn't warrant this … whatever this was.

He snorted to himself and continued to pace. Even abducted and alone, he was outclassed by his very prison cell. Not that he was complaining. If he had to be kidnapped, he was grateful not to be chained to a wall somewhere, but he felt out of his depth. It was like Buckingham Palace all over again … except there was no Sherlock.

No, there was nothing in John's current life to warrant abduction at all, much less one with this much … class.

He sat down and put his head in his hands. None of this made any sense. He had been here all day and, except for three really excellent meals, nothing had happened.

What he wouldn't do for a drink right now, he thought.

The bell over the dumb-waiter rang and, curious, he heaved himself to his feet and went to check.

Inside, a glass with a double scotch.

His skin crawled (how closely were they watching?) even as he gratefully returned to the couch and took a sip. An appreciative sip, because this was one of the smoothest whiskeys he'd ever tasted.

He held it up in a silent toast and then sat quietly while he drank it all. (It was far too good to rush it.) When he was done, he left the glass on the table and went to bed. He'd struggle with the mystery again in the morning.

###

The days fell into an irritating if peaceful routine.

John waited as patiently as he could at first. Surely his captor would contact him at some point? In his (surprisingly vast) experience with kidnappers, they always felt the need to explain themselves.

But all he had was silence—but for the telly. With the exception of the total lack of any kind of news (which was starting to make him twitch), he couldn't complain about the treatment, not really, but he knew the dangers of solitary confinement, knew how much people needed interaction with other people to keep sane, to keep things in perspective. Individual needs varied, but even the most dedicated hermit needed to stock up on supplies and conversation once in a while—and John was usually anything but a hermit.

So … it was frustrating. And lonely. And boring. Really boring. Because while, yes, he enjoyed reading and telly in his leisure hours, he was used to being _busy_. (Recent weeks of mourning notwithstanding.) Leisure activities, by definition, aren't meant to be full-time occupations.

He paced around his rooms and, finding cleaning supplies, set to scrubbing the bathroom for want of anything more productive to do. He had found a tiny washer and dryer behind a cupboard door as well, so doing laundry filled up about 8.2 minutes each day.

But mostly, he was bored. He suddenly found himself sympathizing with Sherlock—given a gun, he'd be shooting at the walls, too.

The terrace outside was just big enough for him to run a tight circle, and so he ran laps, trying to fill in some time, work out some energy, but it didn't help, not enough. He still felt trapped.

Well, he was trapped, of course. Captive.

He started keeping track of the days on a piece of paper from the desk. Really, wasn't anyone going to talk to him? Tell him why he was here?

He tried hard to be patient, he did, but by the fifth day, he was ready to climb the walls.

By the tenth, he had actually tried. He had brought the chairs from his sitting room and stacked them by the twelve-foot high wall surrounding his terrace and had carefully climbed to the top, but even with their height, he couldn't reach the top. He shifted his weight, judging the steadiness, trying to decide if he could risk a jump, when he saw the wire running along the top. Electric current, he judged, though he had no way of telling whether it was an alert system or a cross-this-and-die level of voltage.

Whatever it was, it was clear he wasn't getting over the top of that wall—without another chair, he couldn't even _see_ over the top. He turned himself around to sit on the chair, not caring how precarious it was. Even with the extra height, he couldn't see anything useful. The only thing past his terrace were the tall trees rimming it and sky. The only thing in his line of sight was a puffy cloud off to the west.

He wanted to kick in frustration, but he didn't want to risk knocking the chairs over. There was a basic first aid kit in the bathroom, but he didn't have anything to set broken bones with … though he wondered what his captors would do if he hurt himself?

He stared into his beautiful, hated set of rooms and wanted to scream. Maybe hurling himself off this stack of chairs wasn't such a dreadful idea … though he knew that he wasn't likely to cause any real damage, and he really didn't want to suffer any broken bones. Not without good reason, anyway.

He could see the light of the surveillance camera from here and wondered what his kidnappers were thinking. How many people had been held here, anyway? How many of them had tried this exact thing, only to be faced with the knowledge that it was useless. From everything he could tell, escape from here was simply not possible, not without some kind of help.

He felt defeated, and he did not like feeling defeated. Not when he had already lost so much. He couldn't _afford_ to feel this lost, this much out of his depth. He had no idea why he was here and, while he wasn't being harmed, it still hurt. It _hurt_. What little control he'd had left of his life after Sherlock jumped had been taken away and … what was left?

Nothing.

Because, really, he had barely been more than a shell when he'd been brought here, but now? He was emptier than ever, and didn't even have someone he could yell at, rail at, scream at. He was not a suicidal man, not really, but he was starting to think that it was his only option—if only because it was the only thing he might possibly be able to control.

And so John sat there, high above the terrace on his precarious perch, thinking hard until dusk rolled in and he carefully, shakily, climbed down and carried his chairs back inside.

Back inside, he climbed into bed.

And then he stayed there.

###

When the chime sounded alerting him to his breakfast the next morning, he didn't get up.

When his lunch was announced, all he did was roll over and pull the covers up over his head.

When his dinner came, he didn't move at all.

For the next three days, he didn't get out of bed.

Well, he got out of bed long enough to use the bathroom, but other than taking a drink of water while he was there, he went straight back to bed. By the third day, he wasn't even bothering to do that.

Instead, John curled into his bed and just … drifted. He wandered through the corridors of his life like a museum, remembering the bright, shining days when he'd had a purpose. Medical school. The army. Sherlock. He'd had a good life, really. Fuller than most people's. He'd saved and taken lives. He'd helped hundreds of people, either as patients or crime victims (or potential crime victims). He'd tried to be a good friend, could probably have been a better brother, but really, nothing to complain about.

It had been a good old life. And if it ended here? Well, it was a small loss. It was probably the best time for it, really. The last segment had ended, but he hadn't yet had time to start in another direction. There weren't any people counting on him, so if he were going to disappear, better now than a year from now when he might have had a new set of friends and responsibilities.

Not that he wanted to die. He didn't. But he couldn't take this limbo. If his kidnapper was trying somehow to help him (Mycroft?), then he should know John well enough to know that this was the worst possible time to take away his options. He hadn't yet found something to fight for, so being locked away wasn't going to do him any good—even if he was physically safe. If his kidnapper was an enemy, well, John just couldn't be fussed. Let his enemy gloat over the broken soldier.

This wasn't a death wish. This wasn't even him giving up, he told himself. This was just John Watson taking the only thing he had any control over into his own hands.

###


	2. Chapter 2

On the fourth day of lying in bed, John barely registered it when he felt movement around him, voices. The prick of a needle in his arm. The discomfort of a tube being forced down his throat. Gentle hands turning him, stripping away his clothing, wiping him down, changing the bedding.

It might all have been a dream.

###

He was drifting in and out of hazy dreams the next morning when he thought he heard his name. That wasn't possible, though, he thought. There was nobody here to speak to him.

"Doctor Watson. Can you hear me?"

He blinked his eyes open, trying to remember whether hallucinations were a sign of dehydration. He hadn't left the bedroom television on, had he?

But it was on, and it was talking to him.

Forehead creased, he struggled to roll over to see the screen more easily. A handsome computer-animated face was watching him with concern. "Doctor Watson." This time his name was said with some relief and John wondered how long the television had been speaking to him before he woke up.

He just stared, brain struggling to comprehend what his eyes were showing him. A cartoon character was talking to him? Had he crossed into some weird Pixar world?

Still, it was the first interaction he'd had in a fortnight. It wouldn't do to be choosy, even if it wasn't exactly a person. His throat was oddly sore, making it hard to speak, but he nodded at the face on his screen.

"You concerned us, Doctor Watson."

John just watched the screen, waiting.

"You stopped eating, stopped doing anything. You're not to do that again."

John was too tired to laugh, but he huffed out a whisper. "What difference does it make?"

"The intent is to keep you healthy, Doctor Watson. If you neglect yourself, we'll have to take steps—and they'll be much less pleasant for you."

John just closed his eyes. It would almost be better. At least he'd have some human interaction.

"Do you not believe me, Doctor Watson?"

He shrugged. He opened his mouth to ask what it mattered, but all that emerged was a rusty croak.

"There is some tea next to your bed, with honey for your throat which I imagine is quite sore. It's an unfortunate side-effect of the feeding tube—something I hope we will not have to do again?"

John was staring at the table, only just now realizing he was no longer in the clothes he had been wearing when he climbed into bed … how many days ago? He picked up the tea and took a sip—still warm in its thermal mug, if not as hot as he'd like. Still, the honey made it soothing to his swollen throat. He gave a short laugh.

"What?"

"Just ironic," John rasped out. "My only guests in weeks and I missed it."

"An emergency medical team does not exactly qualify as 'guests,' Doctor Watson."

"Closest thing," John said sadly, sipping at his tea. How screwed up was his life when talking to a cartoon on the telly made him feel happier than he had in weeks? "So, what now? You'll threaten me to behave and then what? Disappear again?"

"There is no need for contact, Doctor Watson. Just take care of yourself so we don't have to do this again."

John gave a weary smile as he leaned back into his pillows. "You're not very good at the incentive thing, are you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I'm bored," John said. "I mean, I don't know who you are or why I'm here, but if you're trying to make me go comfortably crazy, you're doing a fine job. Don't you know what solitary confinement does to a man? It's been over a fortnight and this is the first interaction I've had with anyone—and it's a cartoon character which, frankly, I would suspect I was hallucinating if it weren't for the tea that I'm reasonably sure I did not make for myself."

The face on the screen frowned at him. "The intent is to keep you safe, Doctor Watson, not to drive you insane."

"If you knew me as well as you think you do—judging by the book and movie selections and food choices—you'd know that I like to keep busy. I spend most of my time seeing people, talking with them. Other than the occasional solitary evening, I don't like to be on my own. So … over two weeks with no contact of any kind? Not even with one of my kidnappers? Boredom is an understatement."

The cartoon looked thoughtful. (Could a cartoon look thoughtful? Was it really a cartoon if it looked more like a real person than a line drawing?) "It is a security risk, Doctor Watson. We would not have intruded last night had it not been life or death."

John nodded, feeling lightheaded and achy. "I know, which is why I'm saying that telling me to take care of myself doesn't exactly give me any incentive—not when what I'd really like is some kind of daily interaction with somebody. Even trading insults for fifteen minutes would be better than nothing. I'm not making demands, mind you. I know I'm in no position to … but I do know how to get people in here."

"You would deliberately hurt yourself?" The voice was stunned. "That's … unacceptable, Doctor Watson."

"Not really an option I'm fond of, either," said John. "Desperate times."

There was a long pause then, "I will consider this, but in the meantime, I expect you to take care of yourself today. You were severely dehydrated, doctor. My remit is for you to remain unharmed while you are here, and that includes internal as well as external threats."

That was news to John, but he thought it was best not to push his luck. He just nodded and watched the computer animated face give him one more intense look before the monitor blinked off.

When the conversation ended, John nodded to himself and forced himself to sit up, groaning as his back protested. Four days in bed with nothing to eat had maybe not been the best idea.

Feeling shaky on his feet, he headed toward the bathroom … really, this had gone farther than he'd hoped. He hadn't thought it would go so far as being force fed. An IV, too, he realized, when he made it to the bathroom and saw the mark on his arm. Still, at least he was able to care for himself—definitely better than waking up in hospital. (He may have wanted attention, but there were limits.)

He was just considering whether he should take a shower (or maybe a bath, because sitting down was really quite appealing at the moment), when he heard the dumb-waiter chime. Okay. He had agreed to behave. He'd go eat and then see how he felt about the energy expenditure versus feeling clean ratio.

###

John spent most of the day on the couch, watching mindless telly and feeling ill. He had only himself to blame, after all. He obediently ate the easily-digestible, throat-friendly food provided—or what he could. His stomach felt like it had shrunk with its fast. He drank lots of water and tea, too, laced with the honey that was thoughtfully included.

He felt reasonably sure now that, had he fallen and broken his arm, someone would have come to take care of him. What had his 'visitor' said before? His remit was to keep John unharmed? That still didn't tell him whether it was an over-protective friend or an over-cautious foe, but for the short term, it was reassuring.

He wished he'd been conscious enough to see how the emergency crew had entered the room last night, though. Through the glass slider? A hidden door he hadn't found? Maybe there really was a hatch in the ceiling and they had rappelled down?

Too late now, though, and he didn't think he'd be able to get away with the same trick again. He just hoped his play for attention didn't end badly. Like he'd said at the beginning, this entire situation could be so much worse.

He was dozing in front of the television that evening when the picture scrambled into the same computer-generated face as before and spoke his name.

"Doctor Watson."

He jumped (though he'd never admit it), and struggled to sit up. "Are you going to make a habit of watching me sleep? Because that's just creepy."

"You're the one who wanted interaction, Doctor Watson. It's not my fault you were asleep when I came to respond."

John shrugged, pulling at his blanket where it was tangled around his legs. "Fair enough," he said, trying to be agreeable.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like crap," John said bluntly, "But better than this morning. You?"

"What difference does it make how I feel?"

"Just making conversation. Isn't that why you're here?"

The man on the screen lifted his eyebrows. "I'm here because I told you I would consider your … request … for some form of daily interaction to stave off insanity. I didn't come to _chat_."

"And yet," said John with a smile, "I believe chatting definitely falls under the category of daily interaction. See? Look how much good you've done me already."

The lips pursed and made tsk-ing noises. "I'm surprised, Doctor Watson. I would think you'd be aware of the perils of Stockholm Syndrome. Do you really think it wise to socialize with your captor?"

"So far as I'm concerned, I'm talking to a cartoon and, to my knowledge, no cartoon has ever caused me any harm. Or, at least, not since I tried to copy Wile. E. Coyote's plunge off the side of a cliff and broke an arm when I was seven. And, really, I can't blame the coyote for that."

"You jumped off a cliff when you were seven?"

John was impressed at the disbelieving expression—computer effects had come a long way since Star Wars. "Well, we were short on cliffs in our neighborhood, but the roof of the house worked perfectly well. And my sister dared me … it was more her fault than Looney Tunes. So really, I don't hold grudges against cartoons."

"I see." John hid a smile. Whoever was on the other side of this computer animation obviously did not at all understand. He probably hadn't watched cartoons growing up—which argued for him being a genius like Mycroft or Moriarty rather than an ordinary person (like him), but that didn't really say much. Maybe he'd just been born without a sense of humor. "So, what's the verdict, then?"

"I have a full schedule, Doctor Watson, but in the interests of your sanity, I will try to stop by to 'visit' several times a week. I trust that will be satisfactory?"

"Not as satisfactory as letting me go home," John said, "But conversation will help—even with a wacky-faced cartoon."

"Wacky-faced?"

John raised his own eyebrows. "Well, if you're trying to look serious or intimidating, you probably don't want to look quite so … Disney hero. I can understand your desire for, er, privacy, but maybe you could come up with something a little more realistic?"

"You're becoming a demanding guest, Doctor Watson." The voice was tinged with ice. "Anything else?"

John pursed his lips, not wanting to press his luck.

"Out with it, I don't have all day." He sounded resigned.

"If you're offering, I could use something to do. Even I can't read novels and watch crap telly all day."

"What would you suggest?" Even more ice.

"Puzzles? Deck of cards? I don't know. I'm not saying your … amenities … aren't quite nice. I mean, this is a lovely prison cell, but I'm used to being busy. If you really want to keep me sane, it would help—but it's your call."

A smirk. "Well, we do want your stay with us to be pleasant. I'll see what I can do, but in the meantime, Doctor Watson, behave as befits a guest."

The screen fizzled back to the crappy show he'd been watching and John couldn't help but smile. He didn't know what he'd just accomplished, but he felt better than he had in weeks.

###

The next day, after he'd eaten his breakfast and returned his dishes, the dumb-waiter chimed again and he found a basket with a Doctor Who jigsaw puzzle, two decks of playing cards, an assortment of Sudoku and crossword puzzle books, a pile of medical journals, and a Looney Tunes coloring book with a pack of crayons.

He couldn't help it. He laughed when he saw the crayons and felt more charitable toward his captors than he had since he'd woken here almost three weeks ago. He'd gotten everything he'd asked for and a good chuckle as well. He went right to the desk to pull out a note card to say thank you, but then thought better of it.

Instead, when he returned his lunch dishes, he included a neatly-colored picture from his new coloring book with a "Thank you" scrawled across it in his best doctor's handwriting. (Which was to say, nearly illegible.)

The next several weeks fell into a routine. John played his role of "guest" and politely amused himself with the amenities offered while his computer-animated captor stopped to visit every few days.

John didn't know if it was just that he was starved for anything resembling human contact or if it was Stockholm Syndrome or what, but he found their conversations entertaining and stimulating. It wasn't unlike talking to Sherlock in that way (without the complete frustration). Not that he wasn't often frustrated. As his captivity went on, he got both more resigned and more anxious to leave. It had been seven weeks now, and so far as he knew, nobody was looking for him.

It wasn't something he could ask Bugs, as he'd started to call his "host." (The man had protested at first, insisting his image was high-tech computer technology that interpreted his real-life facial expressions to a state-of-the-art facsimile making anonymous interaction possible. It was nothing like a cartoon. But John pointed out that he was doing him a favor since Bugs always came out on top, and would he rather be Elmer Fudd? Or he could give him a name to use instead? And so Bugs stuck.)

Still, the confinement rankled, if not so badly. John spent several hours a day outside (weather permitting) and was even granted a weather-proof wind-breaker to put on over his jumpers when the weather got cold.

He supposed he was a model prisoner, even as he tried not to think how that went against everything he had trained to do. A soldier was supposed to try to escape, but … where? How?

He still wasn't any closer to figuring out who was holding him. The relatively friendly treatment led him to think it was more likely Mycroft than one of Moriarty's people, but … how could he know? An evil genius was still genius enough to play a long game. It could be anybody.

Still, there were days when he was frustrated. Days when he worried about Harry or Mrs. Hudson, frustrated about his job at the clinic (long-since gone to some other doctor, no doubt). He wondered whether the rent on his flat had run out, or was Mycroft (if this was Mycroft?) covering it? At least he hadn't gotten the dog he'd briefly considered—the poor thing would have starved.

In the meantime, he might be a "computer-generated facsimile," but talking with Bugs had become the highlight of his day. Regardless of the man's motive, he was remarkably thoughtful. Often when John would mention something in passing—a musical group he liked, or a movie he'd once seen, the CD or DVD would show up several days later. On rare occasions, they would even "watch" together over glasses of that really excellent scotch (on John's part, at least).

It was the most like a friend John had had since Sherlock died, and he tried not to think about the irony of that. On his part, Bugs started checking in more often, and staying longer, as if he enjoyed John's company, too.

But that could be the Stockholm Syndrome talking. As the months drew on, John honestly just wasn't sure anymore.

And then, one night, eleven weeks after John arrived, everything changed.

###

John's television flared to life at 2:11 am. "Doctor Watson. John!"

He blinked, squinting at the bright screen suddenly dominating the dark room.

"John, you're in danger."

Instantly wide-awake, he rolled to his feet. "What?"

"There's not a lot of time." The signal was spotty, and Bugs's face was phasing in and out like a badly tuned channel. "We just got word that Sebastian Moran knows where you are."

John paused in the act of pulling on his jeans. "Seba… _Colonel_ Moran? What does he want with me?"

"You know him?" Bugs was surprised, but immediately moved on. "That doesn't matter right now. What does matter is that he was Jim Moriarty's right-hand man and has a vendetta out for all things connected to Sherlock Holmes—and you are top of his list."

"But…" began John.

"_There's not time_, John," Bugs cut him off. "It looks like your time staying with us is coming to an end, but as the entire point was to make sure you survived the experience, let's focus on that right now, shall we? We can deal with explanations later."

John forced down his questions, blood singing with the familiar high pitch of adrenalin. "Right. So Moriarty's right-hand man who happens to be a sniper is on his way to kill me and I'm conveniently locked in a room with no doors and no weapons to hand. What am I supposed to do, throw DVDs at him?"

"Not quite," Bugs said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Your suite is quite … self-contained. An assassin could roam the hallways for hours without ever knowing you're there as long as you don't go banging a drum."

"Which I don't have, either," John said.

"Quite. In which case, you're safe where you are, especially with the layers of sound-proofing. The other possibility is a long-shot. The easiest way in and out, John, is by your terrace, and by 'easy,' well…. It can't be seen from the road or reached from the ground—even if you could have gotten over the top, incidentally, you never would have been able to climb down. It is, however, theoretically accessible from the air. On the off-chance the man is using his parachuting skills and opts to pick your terrace as his target…"

"I'm a sitting duck."

"Exactly. So I need you to hide."

"Hide? Where?" John asked, looking around the room.

"You see your bedside lamp?"

"The one that's screwed to the table?" John's voice was dry. "What about it?"

"Give it a quarter turn clockwise, and then lift it straight up." John did so and found a button underneath, which, glancing at Bugs's face on the screen, he pressed. He heard a click and whirr under the bed and, bending, saw the side of the platform bed dropping down into the floor.

"That's … a safe room? Under the bed. You expect me to hide _under the bed?_" He couldn't help the way his throat tightened and winced as the pitch of his voice rose, but damn it, he was a soldier. He didn't face danger by hiding under a bloody bed.

"I know it's against your nature, John…"

"Damn straight it's against my nature," John said shortly. "It also makes me even more of a sitting duck than I am out here, with even less room to maneuver and no means to defend myself."

The static coming through the television was making Bugs sound even more urgent. "It also keeps you _safe_."

"Maybe, but only if Moran doesn't find it. If he does, I'm dead. It's like shooting fish in a barrel."

"The odds of him getting into that safe room once you've locked it down are about seven hundred fifty thousand to one, John, and you'd be_safe_. I promise, it's more comfortable than it looks."

John was breathing heavily now as he pulled on his shoes. "I've said before, you don't know me as well as you think you do. When have I ever in my life preferred to be _safe_?" He practically spit out the word. "Why can't you just extract me now?"

"There's no time …" Bugs's computer-animated face was visibly upset, and for a moment John felt almost sorry for that. "You wouldn't be defenseless, John. Look inside, just under the headboard."

Kneeling down, John leaned forward. (He was not crawling in there, he resolved. The bastards could probably close it remotely to lock him in.) Tucked into the wall, he saw a small safe. He turned toward the screen, but Bugs was already saying, "The code is 7843."

The man's voice was more urgent now, and moving swiftly, John pressed in the key and stared in surprise.

"Yes, it's your Browning. Do try not to shoot any of my people with it."

"How will I know?"

"Easy. They'll identify themselves as Looney Tune characters." He was definitely right; Bugs was amused by something tonight, no matter the seriousness of the situation. "Like I said, chances are all you need do is hold tight and let my people take care of things—just be _quiet_. But if someone does find you—either by way of the terrace or by trying to break a wall down—at least you're prepared. Please, John. Don't be stupid."

John stared at the television, amazed to hear real emotion in that plea, but Bugs was already continuing. "Either way, John, this will be your last night here. If all goes to plan, we'll take care of Moran when he arrives and that will be that and we can introduce ourselves properly—though, of course, I'll let you know as soon as the threat has been neutralized."

"Oh, ta," said John, nerves singing. Was it wrong of him to hope that Moran would come in by way of his terrace? The thought of having something to do, of a life-or-death confrontation, was really just what he needed, and he couldn't quite bear to think that he might miss out on the entire thing, hidden in his gilded cage.

"I know what you're thinking, John, and believe me, you're better off where you are."

John laughed. "And again with the not knowing me well. I'm not the kind of man who hides from fights."

"Neither am I, which is good … because by morning, neither of us will have reason to hide anymore."

John wanted to question that, but Bugs was gone, and John was left alone in the dark, clutching his gun and wondering what the morning would bring.

###


	3. Chapter 3

Everything was quiet.

After Bugs had signed off, John had squatted down to peer into the "safe room" under the bed and had to agree—it looked slightly less like a coffin than he expected. It was set down into the floor so that, once maneuvered into, he would be able to sit up. There was light, a first aid kit, and some basic provisions.

But still … hiding was never going to be his first choice. And he certainly wasn't going to squeeze in there if he didn't have to.

He had to admit to some nervousness, though. It was certainly true that he was trapped here. There was no exit from these rooms other than the terrace (or blasting through the dumb-waiter, though he was willing to bet that was bullet-proof). His options for hiding spots (other than the bed) were very limited.

Add to that the likelihood that any sniper worth his salt was going to have night-vision goggles at the very least … hiding was not going to be easy.

He could agree with Bugs that the safe room was the most prudent option if things were to go badly, but … nobody had ever accused John Watson of being prudent.

Silently, he prowled his rooms, reminding himself of angles and lines of sight. Without knowing the layout of the rest of the building, he had no idea which of his walls were most likely to be shot through, but he could at least prepare for an invader coming in through his glass sliders and then hope for the best.

He wondered how much Moran knew about his location—if he knew how, what was the phrase? _self-contained_ his set of rooms were. If so, any sniper doing his job wouldn't even need to come inside—he could just shoot from the terrace. Though, he wouldn't put it past his 'hosts' to have made the sliders out of bullet-proof glass as well.

No, taking his best guess at the likeliest line for invasion, he laid his own trap. He ruffled the covers on the bed to look like he'd woken in a hurry, and then tossed his pajamas and robe into the safe room and pressed the button to close it … making sure that the tail of his robe tie remained outside, as if he had carelessly gotten it caught in his rush.

He was sure the safe room would block any heat signatures and so, his gun at the ready, he crouched down in the corner next to the bed on the other side, confident that he couldn't be seen (or detected) by an invader coming in the door.

Bugs had been right. He'd barely been in position for fifteen minutes when he heard footsteps pounding through the unseen hallways beyond his ears. (Considering the level of sound-proofing around his suite, he was impressed he could hear anything at all.) Muffled gunfire sounded and he held his breath, wondering who was more trained—Moran's men or Bugs's people.

There was so much noise coming from the rest of the house (it sounded like a full-out pitched battle), he barely heard the scratching noise coming from the terrace.

###

John held his breath. If all went well, Moran would come in, see the robe belt sticking out from the safe room and—while he was examining it—John could strike.

Except, that wasn't what happened. At all.

He heard some quiet noise on the terrace, as he hunkered down in his corner, senses taut as he strained to hear, barely allowing himself to breathe.

He was so focused on listening, the bang, when it came, almost made him jump. Frowning, he tried to place the noise. He would have said gunshot, but the terminus didn't sound right … ah, he thought. The glass _is_ bullet-proof.

Except, what had the sniper been shooting at? The noise had come from the living room, not the bedroom, so it seemed that his hiding spot was still secure, the camouflage from the safe room still effective. It was illogical, though.

Why the living room? It wasn't even three in the morning, why was he shooting into the living room? John tried to remember exactly what one could see from the terrace, and only then realized there was light in his living room as if he'd left … ah, of course … the telly on.

He swore under his breath. No doubt Bugs thought he was helping, but if Moran came in through the living room and then used the internal door to enter the bedroom, John's hiding spot was no such thing—he'd be spotted immediately. His plan would only work if Moran came in directly from the terrace.

Why would Bugs be putting him at extra risk?

Unless … damn it. He was doing this on purpose to maneuver John into that damned safe room under the bed. John's life was in danger and the man was playing games. He really was Looney Tunes.

He could hear chaos coming (distantly) from the rest of the … house? Building? It really was admirable sound-proofing, but it also meant he was trapped here with Moran right outside his rooms and no way to alert anyone. He wondered how good Bugs's security cameras were, wondered if he knew that Moran was using the terrace after all.

"I know you're here, Watson," a taunting voice came through the glass. "Why don't you come out and play?"

Another bullet slammed into the glass—the bedroom door, this time—and John tried not to flinch.

"You've been hiding so long, I thought maybe you'd lost interest. Don't make me come in there to find you."

John just kept his head down, resisting the urge to get pulled into a series of playground taunts. He was absolutely astonished when he heard his own voice speaking from the living room. "Go away, Moran. I'm not playing your game."

Bugs again! What the hell was he doing? Didn't he know better than to poke a tiger? Then he heard a quieter hiss from the television in his room. "John! Get in the safe room! It's the only way."

Stubbornly, he just shook his head. Things hadn't gotten that bad yet.

Moran was calling from the terrace, "Come on out, Watson. If you do, I promise I'll make it easy for you. One, quick bullet, just like Moriarty when Holmes killed him. I'm here for justice, not revenge. It'll be fast … but only if you come out … _NOW_."

John heard his own voice responding stubbornly from the living room while his bedroom set entreated him to retreat now. Damn Bugs—he really didn't know John at all if he didn't realize that this would only make him more stubborn. He could feel his heels digging in to the rug as he clenched his jaw. Like hell he was going to walk away from this fight!

"You're not going to do this the easy way?" Moran forced a note of disappointment in his voice, but dropped it an instant later. "Good. A clean death is too good for you, with you cowering in there like a rat. You've been cowering for months, Watson. And you call yourself a soldier?"

John was opening his mouth to explain just how little he was cowering when the living room television did it for him. "I'm a doctor, Moran, and only fight when I have to."

John rolled his eyes. That was the best the man could do at imitating him? The computer might have the voice spot on, but the dialogue was dreadful. He would never have said that.

"Lucky for you, then, I'm not interested in fighting you, Watson," Moran said, sounding closer now. "I just want you to die."

And then several things happened all at once.

The living room slider opened with a crash and then several smoke grenades came bouncing into the suite, one rolling right into John's bedroom.

As John began to cough, the door slammed closed again, followed by a solid thump like something was being wedged in the door, and then another, right outside the bedroom.

And then, as the sprinkler system came on, the terrace outside his window burst into flames.

What the hell? John looked up over the bed to see Moran lit by the glare from the flames. Blinking away the water streaming down his face from the suite's sprinklers, he strained to look … the exit was completely blocked by flames, flaring five feet tall already. Judging by the orange light in the living room, that door was blocked as well.

Even as he choked in the smoke, he couldn't make sense of this. The smoke grenades would have forced him out onto the terrace, but Moran had blocked him in with both fire and whatever he had lodged in the doors to keep them from opening. But since the sprinkler system immediately killed the smoke from the grenades … didn't that just make John safer? Kept securely inside behind bullet-proof glass? A little wet, maybe, but safe enough.

Another rack of coughs took him, and it was only as his vision started to tunnel that he realized … of course. The grenades weren't just smoke. They were _poison_. He could either lie here and choke to death or try to force himself past the blocked, shatter-proof glass doors only to be shot dead on the other side.

Damn it, there really was only one choice.

Reaching behind him, he fumbled for the button for the safe room, fighting to keep breathing, hoping the thing had some kind of air purifying system, or it was just going to kill him faster. He was starting to lose feeling in his fingers and hurried, squirming under the bed to fall onto the padded floor below. Thankful for the automatic lighting, he found the switch to close it. Dimly, he heard his name being called in the distance and hoped Bugs was happy now.

Still coughing in the smoke that had rolled in with him (he could only hope that being soaked to the skin was a good thing. What kind of poison was this?), he looked frantically around. He'd seen a first aid kit … would it include…?

He was crawling toward it when the gas overcame him and he collapsed.

###

It was only moments later when John came to, still struggling to breathe. He lifted his head, trying to see in the dim, smoke-filled light. The first aid kit. That's what he wanted.

He pulled himself up to his hands and knees and inched forward, coughing, toward a familiar-looking shape that he hoped … yes, it was. An oxygen tank. Fingers fumbling, he pulled at the mask and tried to turn the knob at the side to release the air as the smoke rose up to fill his lungs and he passed out again.

###

He felt air moving across his face and blinked for a moment before he realized. He had fallen before he'd gotten the oxygen mask on his face, but it was inches away, and still purer than the air outside. Moving as quickly as he could, he pulled the strap over his head and just lay there, panting while he took deep, clean breaths.

It helped, but not enough. He looked around his tiny little safe room for something to purify the air and, mental fingers crossed, hit the Fan button he found in the wall. Safe rooms were built for doomsday scenarios, right? They would vent out but not pull in stale, dangerous air from the outside … right?

The oxygen was helping, but he was still being racked with great coughs that seemed to come from his very toes. He couldn't believe he was here—trapped under the bed like a frightened 9-year old, but what choice had he had?

Like Bugs had said, it was large enough to sit up with room to spare. He looked around, trying to make sense of the cupboards and buttons on the control panel. One was marked CCTV and he flipped it and was granted an instant infrared look at his bedroom, full of smoke but otherwise empty. There were other feeds—he scrolled through to see his living room, the kitchenette, the terrace … and there, Moran, yelling and trying to see past the flames.

Poor sniper, thought John, he must be wondering what happened to his target. From his angle, John had appeared to collapse on the far side of the bed—he likely didn't even know about the safe room underneath. And if he did? Well, John was willing to bet this was as secure as they came. What had Bugs said? Seven hundred fifty thousand chances against one to breaking in?

So, in theory, all John had to do was wait for reinforcements. That's what safe rooms were for, right?

He coughed again and felt like he was tearing the lining of his throat. Was there water in here? There should be … ah, in the corner. He cracked open a bottle and lifted the mask long enough for a long drink before sniffing at the air. It smelled a lot better than it had. He could probably turn off the oxygen in a few more minutes, as long as his breathing held steady.

He saw a blinking light next to a phone receiver and picked it up. "Hello?"

"John? Thank God. Are you all right?" It was Bugs, sounding frantic and more out of breath than John was.

"I'm fine," he said, coughing. "Fine enough, anyway."

"I did tell you to get in the safe room, John."

"Isn't there some kind of a rule about computer animations not saying 'I told you so'?" John asked. "Or are you going to tell me you were expecting poison gas with the escape route blocked off?"

Silence from the other end of the line and then, "Poison?"

"Yeah," John said. "Not sure which one—it's been a while since I did poison gases—but definitely more than just smoke. Moran planned quite a show for himself—either watching me succumb to gas, die in flames escaping the room, or getting to shoot me if I made it past them." He glanced at his tiny monitor. "Uh oh. He's breaking his way into the room now. Apparently he's not happy not knowing if I'm actually dead. So … how secure is this safe room?"

"Very," Bugs told him, sounding confident. "What's your condition, John?"

"The oxygen helped—and, let me compliment you on your nicely equipped first aid kit. I'm feeling mostly fine at the moment, though without knowing what I inhaled, that could change. Mustard gas could take hours to show up its worst effects for the poor blokes who didn't collapse in the first wave."

"So, first aid sooner rather than later," Bugs said firmly. "I'm ten minutes out with reinforcements. Just … don't do anything stupid, John, please."

"I could say the same to you."

John leaned the receiver on his shoulder and took one, last deep breath before turning off the oxygen. There were flames outside his window and he didn't want any more pure oxygen in here than necessary. No sense turning his safe house into Apollo One.

He wished he hadn't thought of that, though. What would happen if Moran decided to set the room on fire? Were these things heat-proof? Or would it act like a secure little oven?

He watched his monitor while Moran beat away at the flames blocking his door and then pull at the wood he'd wedged to keep the door from opening.

Then, towering at his full, enraged height, Moran filled the door.

###

John watched as Moran pulled a gas mask on over his face and then step over the embers on the ground, rifle held at the ready.

"Bugs? Moran is in the bedroom."

"I can see that, John. Five minutes."

John just nodded and watched the screen as Moran edged around the bed to the corner where John had been hiding. He couldn't hear anything, but he could imagine the stream of curses as the man saw he was missing.

Moran bent to look under the bed and then gave the side of the platform a kick, making John jump. The man backed away then and stepped toward the center of the room before taking his rifle in his hands and firing at the bottom of the bed.

John almost laughed when the bullet ricocheted back, just missing the man's legs. "He's shooting at the bed," he told Bugs over the phone.

"It's secure, John. Just hold tight," he was told, but he was barely listening, too busy watching as Moran looked around, clearly formulating another plan.

On his monitor, Moran reversed his gun and, using the butt, crushed the water sprinkler in the ceiling, reducing the water to a mere trickle. Then, he stalked back out to the terrace and came back with a can of petrol, which he began splashing around the room.

Oh no. "Have you got the same video feed I've got?" John asked. "Maybe full tanks of oxygen weren't such a good idea, after all. How heat-proof is this room, Bugs?"

"It should be fine, John," Bugs told him, but his voice sounded uncertain.

"You're not exactly inspiring confidence, here, Sherlock … I mean, Bugs," John told him, wondering at the tongue slip. "You know, this is exactly the kind of reason I _don't like_ safe rooms. I'd rather be fighting than trapped!"

"And I'd rather you were safe," Bugs snapped back.

"Who the hell put you in charge of my life?" John could feel all the pent-up frustration of the last eleven weeks roaring through him. "I don't even know you. It's not your decision, but here we are. You put me in this situation and you'd damned well better get me out!"

"Believe me, John, I will."

John could hear Bugs yelling at someone, asking how close they were just as Moran tossed a lighter onto the bed, the room went up in flames, and the line went dead.

###

* * *

Note: I don't know how safe-rooms really work, so I'm making this up as I go. I'm trying to keep it realistic, but without any real research, I could have this completely wrong. Whoever Bugs is, though, he's obviously very security-conscious, so I like to think he'd have supplied the room with as many gadgets and safety features as he could. And no, I don't know much about poison gases, either.)


	4. Chapter 4

John stared at the silent handset and then slammed it back in its cradle in frustration.

He didn't see many options, here—or any at all—other than to sit and wait and hope that the bullet-proof box he was sitting in was also flame-retardant and climate-controlled, or it was going to get very, very warm in here.

His monitor feeds showed his bedroom in flames, Moran braced in the doorway to the living room, rifle held at the ready. He looked like he was shouting something. John looked around his little command center and hit the switch marked "Intercom."

"…Going to get awfully hot under there, Captain. It's just like you, too, to be hiding under a bed instead of facing danger like a man. Come on, I thought doctors frowned on smoking?"

John ground his teeth. Wasn't it just like Colonel Moran to know how to get under his skin, even after all these years?

A flicker of motion on his monitor caught his eye. A helicopter landing out on the terrace. Looking back at Moran, though, he could see the man was wholly focused on the game he was playing with John. Fine, so the least he could do was draw the man's attention. "Everybody knows smoking is bad for you, Moran. Doesn't that make it one of your hobbies?"

"Smoking _out_, maybe," Moran said with a laugh. "How long are you going to hide under there, Johnny? There are easier ways to die than by roasting."

It _was_ starting to get warm, but John chalked that up to his imagination. "Like being shot while trying to help a wounded soldier? Yeah, I tried that one already."

"You shouldn't have gotten in my way."

"You shouldn't have shot one of your own men!" The heat John was feeling now had nothing to do with the fire in his bedroom, but his memories from Afghanistan, his rage at this man's continually acting above the rules, as if anything resembling moral behavior was beneath him. He could still remember the heat, the sand, as he worked on Matthews, and then the burning in his own shoulder … He had known it was Moran, but had had no proof, and anyway, by the time he was lucid again, the man had already gone, disappeared.

"He got in my way," Moran told him. "Like you did. Come on out, Johnny. The air must be getting thick by now. Wouldn't a clean bullet be easier? Or maybe you're afraid to face me?"

Oh, John would love to show him exactly how unafraid he really was, but while he might be reckless, he wasn't altogether stupid. Staying here in his (hot, getting hot) box under the bed was his only choice—at least until the figure he saw pelting across the terrace had a chance to take out Moran.

He just hoped Bugs remembered that the gas in the room was poison.

"I've never been afraid of you, Moran."

"Says the man choking to death under a _bed_," Moran said and even without seeing his face, John knew exactly what his sneer looked like. He'd seen it often enough.

"Frankly, Moran, I'm not the one you should be worrying about. Haven't you been around long enough to remember to always check your six?" John told him, just as the lead figure on his monitor ran through the living room and shot Colonel Sebastian Moran stone dead.

###

No matter how thick these safe-room walls were, there was no question the temperature inside was rising. The fan was still working, though, so there was no smoke. That was definitely a plus.

On his monitor, he could see several people in his bedroom now, all armed with fire extinguishers and blankets as they battled to get the blaze under control. He tried to make out faces—did he know any of these people?—but it was impossible through the smoke. He could hear his name being called, though.

"Bugs? Is that you?"

"Hang on, John! We're almost there." The man's voice was different without the computer enhancement. Deeper, almost familiar in a haunting way that tickled along the back of John's memory. "I need you to disengage the internal lock, though, or we won't be able…"

And then everything went dark.

Very dark. No lights. No monitors. And quiet, too.

No fan.

Shit.

John could just make out some muffled noises from outside this deathtrap of a safe room, but the intercom was dead, like everything else—like he would be if they didn't get him out of here soon. Without the internal environmental systems, airtight meant limited oxygen. Without power, he had no air.

Well, there was the oxygen tank he'd used earlier, but he didn't dare touch it with live flame just outside the walls. Pure oxygen was too volatile, as the astronauts from Apollo 1 found out. He couldn't risk it.

Though if it came to a point where he was desperate for air … well, hopefully Bugs would get him out before that.

What had Bugs been saying as the power went out? Something about the lock, but unless it was a manual release, there was nothing John could do from in here without power. He wracked his brain for what he knew about safe rooms. Didn't they automatically lock from inside when in use? So they couldn't be broken into? If his had an internal lock engaged … damn it. He was in trouble.

He felt around—hadn't he seen a torch in here? He sighed with relief when he found it, switching it on to force back some of the blackness.

He scanned the dead control panel, looking for anything that would let him unlock this. There was a toggle switch, but … he flipped it without feeling much hope that it would make a difference. There had to be some kind of fail-safe, didn't there?

He moved around the edge of the room (knees grateful for the mattress floor), then sighed with relief. At what would be the foot of the bed, a wheel to turn, like in a bank vault. And not a moment too soon, either, because between the gas earlier and the lack of fresh air now, he was starting to have trouble breathing. Nothing worrying yet, but … the sooner he got out of here, the better. He'd rather risk the flames than suffocation … and would just have to hope that Bugs and his team were making headway on the fire.

Fighting his sudden lightheadedness, he grabbed the wheel and he started to turn.

###

"John? John, can you hear me?"

Frowning, John tried to place the voice. It wasn't Bugs. Hadn't he been expecting Bugs? But … oh, right. Bugs was just a computer projection. His voice didn't really sound as John was used to hearing, but it sounded so familiar? This was a voice out of his memory, and he felt anger wash over him. It was one thing to use his own voice as a decoy, but this?

He forced his eyes open and started to draw breath to complain when a fit of shallow coughing took him, and he gasped, desperate for air in lungs that felt like they were full of cement, heavy and leaden in his chest. Sharp, knife-wielding cement.

"Just breathe, John," the voice said. "You're out, you're safe. Just concentrate on breathing." There was a gentle hand on his forehead and he opened his eyes again, squinting up into the bright floodlights illuminating the terrace.

He forced his eyes to focus, and then closed them in pain. His mind was just playing tricks on him, he thought, trying to force himself to breathe through the sharp jabs in his chest. "No," he mouthed. This couldn't be happening. Since when did lack of oxygen generate hallucinations?

So, keeping his eyes closed this time, he just asked, "Bugs?"

The hand paused on his head, then that honey deep voice he remembered so well, said, "It's okay, John. It's over," just as John slid into unconsciousness.

###

When he woke up next, he was in a hospital room, surrounded by familiar sounds and smells as light streamed across his face, much like when he'd woken in his gilded cell months ago.

He lay there, taking stock. His breathing was much easier this morning, he thought. He could feel the cool air from an oxygen cannula blowing into his nose, but was grateful he didn't seem to need more drastic measures to aid his breathing. (If he could live his days without ever needing a ventilator again, he'd be grateful.)

He swallowed, grimacing at his sore, swollen throat. Smoke inhalation and hypoxia, he thought, and wondered if there was anything worse. What had been in that gas?

"You're awake," an all-too familiar voice said. "Do you want some water?"

Still not opening his eyes, he nodded, and then sucked gratefully on the straw that presented itself. "What happened?" he asked quietly.

"The good news is that Moran is dead. The bad news is that your most recent residence is nothing but sooty rubble—though you are not, thankfully."

"You said it would be my last night there anyway," John said, "But what I want to know is _what happened_, Sherlock?" He opened his eyes, squinting a bit in the sunlight, but immediately focusing on a pair of familiar eyes and cheekbones.

The pale eyes just blinked at him, solemn. "When did you figure it out?"

"I wasn't sure until last night, but I've suspected for a while. Even if Moriarty's people wanted to kidnap me, they'd never have put me up in such style—certainly not with such kindness. Mycroft might have felt obliged for some obscure reason, but he wouldn't have taken the time to keep me company, even through a webcam, not like … Bugs?"

Sherlock smiled. "What's up, Doc?"

John started to smile back, but the emotional wires got crossed somehow and instead, his eyes filled with tears. "I can't believe you're alive, Sherlock. Why did you…?"

"It's a long story, John, although you're wrong about Mycroft. He actually sat in for me a few times when I was … otherwise occupied. The advantage of a computer-generated friend. But as to the rest?" Sherlock handed him a tissue. John looked at the bandages on those long, elegant fingers, the marks on his face, and wondered how close a call it had been last night.

He sat quietly and listened while Sherlock gave him the short version of the events that had forced him to jump and then go on the run, chasing after Moriarty's network of criminals. He explained how hard it had been, no matter how successful … and how, several months ago he had learned that Moran was coming after John.

"And your response was to kidnap me?" John couldn't keep the hint of anger from his voice, but it was hard to hold onto when he saw the anguish on Sherlock's face.

"It was Mycroft's idea. He had kept an eye on you while I was gone, you understand—Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade as well—but this? This was a threat of a different magnitude. Moran wasn't just coming after you himself, he set a price on your head that was so high … John, I was terrified. When I learned … I didn't think Mycroft would even have time to get to you before Moran's people did. It seemed almost … personal. Leaving you at Baker Street just wasn't possible."

"But why not just tell me that? It's not like I wouldn't have understood, Sherlock. If Mycroft had told me and offered a safe house…"

Sherlock was shaking his head. "You would have said no, just like you did to the safe room last night. I _do_ know you, John, and I know how stubborn you can be, and you don't _like_ to be kept safe. At most, Mycroft could maybe have convinced you to stay for a weekend, maybe a week, but I didn't know how long it would take to get Moran. I couldn't take the chance."

"So, you kidnapped me."

"I'm sorry, John."

"Really?" John's free hand was clenching into a fist. "Why didn't you just tell me this, _Bugs_? Maybe not beforehand, but once you had me where you wanted me? I wouldn't have been able to leave, but at least I would have known."

"I … I thought you'd be less angry this way." John had never seen Sherlock's heart so plainly written on his face. " I don't mean now—I knew you'd be furious when you found out. I meant for the length of your stay. I'd already hurt you so badly, John. I thought if you were kept in the dark but well cared for, it would … hurt you less than if you knew it was me and Mycroft. The soldier in you would keep you strong and calm in the face of the unknown, whereas if you knew it was us … I wanted to save you the ulcer from weeks of being angry. Because I'm not denying you have every right to be angry. I just … needed to make sure you were alive to be so."

John sighed, and then broke into a series of coughs. He waved off Sherlock's offers to help and just waited for the paroxysm to ease. "That shows a lot more emotional awareness than I'm used to from you, Sherlock."

"You bring out the worst in me, John." Sherlock offered a tentative smile.

John felt his lips curving in return. "Well, that's true.

They sat in silence for a bit, then John asked, "So … not dead, then?"

His friend shook his head. "No, and neither are you, though … that was too close, John. I thought we wouldn't make it in time."

"I told you I didn't want to go in that damn safe room," John told him.

"It saved your life, though."

He shook his head. "It almost killed me."

"If you had gotten in there before Moran arrived, things wouldn't have escalated."

"I don't know about that. He seemed pretty determined to wreak havoc to me."

"You knew him," Sherlock said. "Before, I mean."

John nodded. "Not that I ever had any proof, but yeah. He was the one who shot me in Afghanistan—while I was trying to save the life of the kid he'd just fired on for some imagined slight or betrayal. He was never exactly the most stable person, and by the time I regained consciousness after surgery, he was gone. Apparently he held a grudge, like his shooting me and having to desert was somehow my fault."

He watched the play of emotions cross Sherlock's face, all quickly contained but no less powerful for being hidden. "He got off too easily."

"No," John told him. "Sometimes you have to put a mad dog down, but that doesn't mean you play with it first. Besides, he wasn't the only reason I almost died last night. It was putting me in an inescapable _box_ with not enough air that caused the trouble, so far as I'm concerned. A second exit would have been better. Remember that next time you build one of those damn things."

"Next time?" Sherlock looked up with a wistful hint of hope on his face.

"Yes, but next time you're the one going in there. Because make no mistake, Sherlock, this is _not_ happening again. I get that you had limited options at … at Barts, but this? You can't unilaterally make decisions about my life like this. You just can't."

"I didn't have a choice, John," Sherlock began.

"No, that's not true," John said as firmly as his swollen throat would allow. "You had to take swift action without consulting me to save my life, and I understand that, I do. I appreciate that you've got my back."

He paused to catch his breath and take another sip of water (wishing it were tea with honey). He looked up to see a relieved, satisfied look on Sherlock's face and struggled to continue, to find the right words for what needed to be said. "But that was just at the beginning—what about the days and weeks after that? You had _plenty_ of time, Sherlock. We could have discussed all of this and figured out what to do, made plans. I know you're the genius and you don't tell me everything, but I'm a grown man and can take care of myself. I appreciate that you're watching out for me, but that goes both ways—we look out for _each other_. That's the only way this can work; that's what friendship _is_. You are my best friend, Sherlock, but I need to know I can trust you."

"Am I? Still?" John had never heard Sherlock's voice sound so small.

"Of course you are, you idiot. I might be furious at you—and I am— but you saved my life last night. Don't think I didn't notice those burns," he said, nodding at Sherlock's hands. "Not only that, you've kept me company for weeks."

"You said you knew?"

"It took a while, I admit," John told him. "I thought you were dead, first of all, and then the cartoon … excuse me … computer-animated face didn't help make the person speaking actually real, and I think that ultimately helped. Bugs's personality was so similar to Sherlock's and knowing that the face I was seeing was false … after a while, it just seemed to make more sense that it was you than somebody doing a really good impression." He tilted his head, thinking. "Especially considering that anybody trying to do that would have copied your public personality, not the Sherlock I knew from hanging about the flat. Nobody else could have got that right."

Sherlock was just staring at him. "You really are remarkable, John."

"Yes, well, try to remember that next time you feel like ranting about how much of a boring idiot I am."

"An idiot, maybe, but never boring, John," Sherlock said with a smile. "Come on. Let's clear you with your doctors so we can go home."

THE END

###

Note: I've so enjoyed all the speculation about who was behind this, and hope you're happy with the answer (and the reasons). The hint, after all, was in the title all the time ... Jewel boxes are for valuable treasures you want to keep safe, after all.


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